


When the Tears Come Streaming Down Your Face

by orphan_account



Series: Fix You Series [3]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: BDSM, Divination, Dom/sub, F/M, Flogging, Impact Play, Mentions of anal fingering, Non-Canon Relationship, Not Beta Read, Painplay, Panties, Punishment, Telekinesis, Telepathic Bondage, mentions of rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 21:54:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19894933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Mallory discovers a part of Michael's plan. Michael gets his just desserts.





	When the Tears Come Streaming Down Your Face

**Author's Note:**

> This instalment is plot heavy. Sorry about the overuse of nicknames. 
> 
> Michael brought back all the witches as in canon (Madison, Queenie, and Misty). 
> 
> The plot and characters of American Horror Story: Apocalypse belong to Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk. Title of the fic and series are from Coldplay's Fix You.
> 
> All Mistakes are my own, not beta read.

Mallory has the power to turn back time.

With water as her conduit, she can drift between worlds. She can swim along the twisting weft of time until she finds the threads that need pulling.

But some things you can’t undo.

Going back a fortnight won’t solve her problems. This time she’s the thread that needs pulling.

When her body washed ashore in this timeline, Mallory went back to the mansion at 1410 Jackson Avenue and tried to resume life as normal. She realizes now that nothing will ever be normal again.

She’ll never be content with playing the quiet mouse or the innocent lamb. She’s something much greater. More powerful.

The sun-filled rooms at Robichaux’s are speeding the decay of her corpse. The putrid darkness at the center of her being is expanding. Her skin is fit to burst.

It chafes when Zoe corrects her intentional mistakes. A burning itch starts at the center of her brain with each of Cordelia’s admonishments about her wandering attention span.

But she bites her tongue.

She shuffles along dutifully, hating them for their unawareness and unappreciation of the gift she's given them.

\--------------------------------------------

Michael is both a complication and a distraction. He’d woken from his doze on her chest the other night looking recharged.

The memory of his eyes, challenging and utterly arrogant, has Mallory’s fingers flexing at her sides. He’d poked his tongue into the cut on the inside of his lip before suggesting they do it again some time.

He’d transmuted before her pillow could hit its mark.

It’s just her luck that as a fledgling Dominatrix she’s gotten herself involved with the brattiest sub in existence. She’s been waiting for days for an opportunity to punish him for his insolence.

Michael’s been keeping himself safely out of her clutches with Madison’s help. He’s decided that she needs to help him pick out a new wardrobe before his evaluation with the Warlock Council tomorrow night.

Since he turned down her offer of a blow-job, Madison’s been under the impression that Michael’s an adorably closeted gay. She’s only too happy to accept his offer to be her new shopping partner. She’s been moping around the house like a particularly morose coat rack since Zoe told her that she “needed some time.”

As the twosome pass Mallory in the front hall, she hears Michael snicker at Madison’s suggestion that Little Mouse on the Prairie needs a fashion intervention more than anyone else in the house.

Embarrassment and rage have Mallory resolving to do a little shopping of her own. She’s got a sudden craving for leather.

\--------------------------------------------

At 6pm the next day, the Warlock Council descends on the house like an unkindness of ravens wearing last season’s Chanel. If Myrtle had a body, she’d be rolling over in her grave.

Michael’s assessment began at 6:30pm. He’s not in drawing room with the other students when Mallory makes her entrance.

The older girls were asked to dress for cocktails at 7:30pm followed by a formal dinner at 8pm. Mallory had maxed out her monthly couture allowance (Myrtle’s legacy) on an outfit for the occasion.

She’s serving ‘fuck you’ in a velvet Tom Ford blazer dress and five-inch spiked Louboutin heels. All in black, of course. The hem of her outfit is just this side of decent. She’s straightened her long brown hair so that it falls in smooth sheets to her waist. Her eyes are lined and her lips are red.

She looks good enough to eat, if the shocked look Madison gives her is anything to go by.

Mallory grabs a flute of champagne and drifts over to where Queenie is leaning against one of the pillars at the perimeter of the room. Queenie takes her in and smiles. “Looks like Sabrina the Teenage Witch is all glow’d up.”

Mallory rolls her eyes at the older witch. “Misty’s cornered the market on peasant dresses. Anymore, and I’m afraid we’ll all burst into La Vie Boheme.”

Queenie snorts. “Since when do you have a sense of humour Mallory?” She tilts her head in Madison’s direction. “Don’t tell me you’ve been getting snark lessons from Hell Bitch 2: The Bitchening.”

Mallory lets out a little huff of amusement. “No. Definitely not.” She squints at Zoe who’s sitting by herself and trying to look uninterested in Madison’s conversation. “I’m avoiding that whole mess until they sort each other out.”

“Girl, the Cortez will burn down before that happens.”

\--------------------------------------------

The waitstaff usher them all into the dining room at 8pm. Mallory takes a seat between two girls who arrived after her return. She doesn’t want anybody distracting her from the warlocks with conversation. She’s starting to think the Satanic Church was a red herring. Michael’s got to have something else up his sleeve and she’s betting it’s got something to do with the Council.

The girls are all seated when Cordelia and two of the warlocks, Pencil-dick and Guyliner, drift into the room. Cordelia settles at the head of the table as the other two seat themselves at her sides. Off-Off-Broadway Billy Porter enters next and takes a seat next to Guyliner. The Grand Chancellor enters last and he’s not alone. Michael’s got his arm hooked though the older man’s and is laughing obnoxiously at something he’s said. He lets Ariel lead him to an open seat and pull out his chair. Ariel’s hand brushes over Michael’s shoulder as he seats himself to Michael’s left.

_That little slut._

Mallory can’t believe it’s come to this. Is Michael actually trying to sleep his way to the top of the Warlock Council? Is he hoping to manipulate Ariel? Replace him?

She’s unsure.

The way that Michael’s painted himself up like some kind of twink trojan horse sets her teeth on edge. Madison or one of the other girls have lined his eyes with kohl and blended it out for a smoky effect. His golden hair is softly parted and curls down near his jaw. He’s got a thin sheen of gloss on his lips. The sight of his shirt makes Mallory lose control. The flames on the candles in front of her blaze briefly before dampening down.

Michael's shirt is ruffled around the neck and otherwise completely see-through. A tailored black blazer and high waisted trousers complete the look. His signature rings are on each hand.

It’s that detail that pulls Mallory out of her anger. She’ll deal with him later. Right now, she needs to detach herself from the situation and focus on listening into the warlocks’ conversation.

They make it through two courses before Michael looks her way.

He’s been laughing along and engaging in witty repartee with Ariel and Pencil-deck. She’d lost her appetite after the third time Ariel paused mid-sentence to watch Michael purse his glossy lips.

Mallory doesn’t mean to catch Michael’s attention. He provokes her when he strokes his pinky finger along Ariel’s next to his plate. A twitch of her own pinky has a member of the wait staff dumping a tray of champagne glasses down the Grand Chancellor’s back. Ariel jumps up in alarm, swearing while Cordelia offers her sincere apologies for the accident. Unappeased, Ariel storms out of the room muttering about dry cleaning bills and passive aggressive witches.

The pleasure in Michael’s expression when he meets Mallory's brown eyes says that he knows it was her. He roves his eyes over the stern line of her red lips and down the skin exposed by her plunging neckline. Mallory watches his expression become alert. He’s alarmed by the change in her usual appearance.

Good. Let him sweat it out.

When the witches start to shuffle out after dessert, Mallory goes with them. She feels Michael’s eyes burning a hole in her back the entire way out of the room. She’s spun her silk. Now she needs to lie in wait like the spider in Constance’s window did all those years ago.

\--------------------------------------------

She conceals herself in her favourite library. It’s in a corner of the house that hardly sees the sun. As a result, it doesnt get much use.

Michael comes looking for her there. Exactly like she knew he would.

As he crosses the threshold and moves into the centre of the room, the glass of the mirror on the wall behind his back starts to ripple. Mallory steps out of the frame. She’s brought one of her new toys with her.

Nonverbally, she seals the heavy wooden doors and weaves the same silencing spell he used the first night they were together.

Michael starts to turn around at the snap of the doors, but she sends him flying across the room and face first into a bookcase with a gentle flex of her mind. She holds him there.

Michael turns his head to the right to breathe out of his mouth. His nose is bloody and dripping down his lips. “Mallory.”

“It’s Mistress to you Michael. All your misbehaviour has lost you the privilege of my name.”

“What the fuck, Mallory! I haven’t done anything!” He glares at her from the corner of his right eye.

“Don’t lie.” The _to me_ is unspoken, obvious. The timbre of Mallory's voice makes the muscles in Michael’s back clench.

In her heels, Mallory just reaches his chin. She presses up against his back. “You’ve been insulting me and parading yourself around like a little slut.” She breathes against his right ear. “Haven’t you?”

Michael shudders against her. He appears to fight with himself for a moment, scrunching up his brow and bloody nose. After a moment, his shoulders slump and he relaxes into the bookcase.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“And what happens to boys who misbehave, Michael?”

His squeezes his eyes shut. “They get—they get punished.”

“Lucky for you, I’ve got just the thing to set you straight. This little Mouse on the Prairie did a little shopping today.” Michael’s eyes shoot open.

Mallory raises her right arm into his line of vision. She’s holding a flogger. The blood drains from Michael’s face. “Colour?” she asks.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Green.”

The kind owner of Tickle Your Fancy had informed Mallory that the flogger, with its many strips of leather, was more likely to cause deep bruising than cuts. The single whips were the toys that tended to draw blood. He encouraged her to get a feel for the flogger before wielding anything that required more control.

The thought of marking up Michael’s flesh has Mallory’s grip tightening on the braided leather handle. She steps back from the warmth of Michael’s body and releases her telekinetic hold.

“Hands on the shelf in front of you.” She can see Michael bite down on his bottom lip, apprehension and eagerness plain on his face as he settles his palms against the dusty wood.

Mallory closes her eyes and imagines his torso naked. When she opens them again his blazer and shirt are gone. Michael sighs. “Was that really necessary? Those were brand new.”

She fists her left hand in his hair and yanks. “Shut. Your. Mouth. I don’t want to hear you talking unless I ask you a question. Colour?”

Michael grits his teeth. “Green.”

Mallory lets go of his hair and drops the flogger to the floor. Both of her hands go for the waistband of Michael’s pants. He’s earned himself some lashes to his ass. She fists the fabric on either side of his hips and starts to pull, Michael goes rigid.

Interesting.

Mallory looks down and spies a bit of pink lace at the base of his spine. She freezes. Michael’s breaths are so quick and shallow that his chest hardly rises with the movement of air. He’s wearing a thong.

“What do we have here?” Michael knows not to answer. The question is rhetorical.

She finishes pushing his pants down around his ankles and takes a step back to admire the view. “Do you like wearing panties, baby?”

Michael’s blush extends from his head down his neck and shoulders. His voice is rough when he responds. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Do they make you feel pretty?”

His biceps flex with the press of his palms into the shelf. His arms are shaking. “Yes, Mistress.”

Michael’s responses have Mallory feeling that dirty little thrill again. She coos, “how long have you been wearing panties, pretty baby?”

“I-I used to steal them from my grandmother’s room.”

Mallory knows that he wouldn’t have shared that information if weren’t required to answer. As a reward, she steps forward to run her hands up and down his back comfortingly. “Colour?”

“Gre-en.” She traces the lace band across his hips before dipping a knuckle down to follow the satin between his tan cheeks. She just reaches his rim when she feels wetness against her skin.

“Oh, Michael.” She sighs. “Did you spend your afternoon stretching out your little hole so you could fuck the Grand Chancellor?”

She hears a deep inhale, but he doesn’t respond. “Michael.”

The shelf creaks as he shifts his weight on his feet. “………..Yes.”

Mallory’s rage rears its head. The fireplace to their left comes to life with a phosphorous flare. She picks up the flogger with her right hand again and runs the handle up the back of Michael’s thigh. “And exactly how many fingers did you have shoved in your ass?”

He makes a strangled noise. “Three.”

Mallory slides the handle of the flogger under the curve of Michaels ass and presses lightly between his cheeks. He bucks into the sensation before she pulls the leather away.

“And how many jokes did Madison make at my expense on your little shopping trip yesterday?” Mallory’s genuinely curious to know.

“She—” Michael cuts himself off. “Seven," he tells her eventually.

“Hmmm three fingers and seven insults. That’s not enough. Let’s double it. Make it an even twenty lashes.” Mallory snakes her left hand around Michael’s body and caresses the pink satin over his groin. He’s hard. She’s delighted by the feel of the smooth material gliding over the heat of his erection.

“If you last—if I don’t make you come, I’ll rim your greedy little hole until you come screaming. If you blow your load before I’ve had my fun, there will be consequences. Colour?”

Michael’s head hangs between his extended arms. He sways back and forth on his feet and whispers something Mallory can’t hear. She moves to his right side and grasps his chin in her left hand, roughly jerking his head to the side.

Mallory brings her lips parallel to his own and licks a stripe over the lip-gloss and blood decorating Michael's pout. He tastes of metallic peach. His pupils swallow the blue of his eyes. “What was that?” she asks, voice deceptively soft.

“Green," he whimpers.

Satisfied, Mallory resumes her position behind Michael. She sees his skin tighten in anticipation, the light from the fireplace dancing across his body.

The force of the first blow rocks Michael forward and draws the breath from his mouth. Mallory feels the impact through her entire body. It takes all of her strength not to wobble on her stiletto heels.

Before Michael has time to recover, just as he’s dragging in a breath, she strikes again. And again. And again. His musical cries echo off the walls of the library.

Mallory’s an expressionist painter—reigning down haphazard splashes of colour on a blank canvas. The way Michael’s skin blanches at the strike of the flogger and flushes with the return of blood has her core dripping with arousal. But this isn’t about her. This is about giving Michael what he deserves. Showing him his place.

The tears are flowing now. Mallory can almost smell the brine in the air. She varies blows, right and left, higher and lower. When leather strips strike the exposed skin of his ass, Michael whimpers and rocks his hips forward helplessly. He maintains his standing position by sheer force of will.

Mallory would almost be proud if she wasn’t trying to destroy him.

When she reaches twenty, Michael’s back and ass are a map of reddened skin. He’s panting like he’s just run a marathon. “Colour?”

He’s slow to respond. His voice is muffled and distant like he’s fighting his way to the surface. “Green.”

With the flogger hanging at her right side, Mallory moves forward to plaster herself against the skin of his back. She glides her left hand up the marks that are already rising to the surface of his skin. Michael groans and presses into the touch.

Mallory gently cups the back of his neck before digging her thumbnail into a fresh welt at the top of his spine. The sharp shock of pain, so different from the thud of the flogger, has Michael’s knees giving out underneath him.

He clings to the shelf and comes in his panties twitching like a dying bird, seed darkening the rose-coloured fabric of his panties and wetting the skin of his groin.

Michael sags against the bookcase with his release. The wood gives an ominous groan with the added weight. Mallory watches with delight as he shakes through the aftershocks of his orgasm. She wants to push him to his knees and watch his glazed eyes as he tries to stay upright. She wants to fist a hand in his soft hair and draw his face to the ache between her legs.

Drawing in a deep breath, Mallory pulls herself back from the edge. She has plans, after all. “Well, that’s disappointing.”

At her words, Michael does drop to his knees. Mallory doesn’t meet his eyes when he twists around to look at her. She struts past him to peruse the books adjacent to the fireplace and plucks a book of translated Russian fairy tales off a shelf at random. She feels the sticky heat of his stare on her legs.

Mallory settles herself in a plush leather chair and cracks open the book. She reads two pages, listening as Michael regulates his breathing. When the in and out of his breath is even, Mallory breaks the silence of the room.

“I could use a footstool. Be a good boy and crawl over here on your hands and knees.”

She meets his still slightly unfocused blue eyes over the top of her book, “colour?”

Michael huffs a low “green.” He goes to peel his panties down his hips but stops at her command. “Leave them on. You can enjoy the feel of your drying come for the rest of the evening.”

Michael frowns at her but drops his gaze to the side. Submitting. He moves forward onto his hands and knees and crawls across the berber carpet. Mallory watches him wince as the movement jostles the bruises blooming up and down the back of his body.

She lifts her feet when Michael gets within range of her chair. He stops underneath them and waits with the trepidation of a convicted criminal at the noose.

Lowering her feet to the skin of his back, Mallory digs the spiked surface of her heels into his injuries. Michael flinches and makes a noise so high that it's barely audible.

Mallory bites the skin of her lip and smirks.

“Good boy. Now let me tell you all about Baba Yaga.”


End file.
